Happy Festival of Boxes! (With a Bonus Gift)

I was going to post yesterday, but between the turkey, the presents, and the family ("That's Ukrainian math, DEBI!") there was just no time. Smitty sends a bunch of seasonal wishes all wrapped in a big bow though.

Fortunately, both my Dad and my brother are music junkies, so going home is a free chance to shop for music. My Dad keeps everything in tall CD towers, in order by genre and then by name, so I just browse and pick up a stack like I'm at a music store. This year, I'm having the weirdest urge for Pearl Jam and U2. I think it might be because my brother is leaving for Korea soon, and not coming back for a whole year. I'm getting all mushy and nostalgic for the days when we were all packed into the family van for trips anywhere educational and not in the least interesting. I've been to more museums commemorating the Civil War through the medium of wax than, well... it's just bad enough I've been to any. Weirdo Americans. And their little wax corpses. Anyway, my brother was the perfect sullen teen and monopolized the car stereo and its cruddy tape deck with U2's Zooropa. I was on an utterly futile quest to play a lot of Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes, and yet my family still let me live.

I've made it through the U2's 80s and 90s catalog and I'm on to Pearl Jam. But I'll say this- I still think that U2's Pop is an underrated album. And it's not only because of my deep and abiding love of synthesizers. They tried to do something different, and I think most of the songs have a certain end of the century ennui, with a darkness under the gloss, that I like. And it's better than a lot of their albums after the critical reaming of Pop, which have all begun to sound like diabetic versions of The Joshua Tree. But at least they give the Grammy award-carver elves employed. So, as a belated Christmas gift to anyone who needs one, here's two songs from my Secret Album Love, Pop:
If You Wear that Velvet Dress- U2
Staring at the Sun- U2
Enjoy, and have a nice winter break!

Eve and A Damn Hat

As you may have guessed, my brother wrote the last entry. But why stop at being his MySpace friend? You can also friend his page at the Southern Ontario Sex Offenders Registry page- his is the one that plays "Every Move You Make" on a loop.

It's Christmas (again) and I am power knitting (again) in order to finish my mother's Christmas gift by tonight. Somehow I managed to finish and block a lace shawl for my Mom last year before I even had to catch the train home. I wonder if she would notice if I just wrapped that shawl up again? The latest is the Basque Beret from Classic Knitted Style, in two strands of blue stashed sock yarn held together. I'll put up pictures once- and if- it's finished. Right now it just looks like a big tonal blue blob that will make a lovely Easter present. With, however, a very nice hemmed reverse stockinette brim. I did do a crochet provisional cast on instead of the one Ms. Avery calls for, and held a strand of elastic as I worked the brim so it would keep its shape. When it came time to knit from the provisional edge and the working edge, however, it did feel a bit like wrestling with spiderwebs.

If it doesn't get finished, I figure one bow and a stapler will make it into a very floppy wreath. And it would still beat my grandmother's gift to her this year- one value pack of abrasive soap pads. Lovingly wrapped. And lemon-scented. I tried putting them on the tree as Christmas ornaments, but my Dad took them off.

Eve and

Why is my big brother Nathan so cool? Why do women love him so much? I don't know, but it sure gets annoying. We keep getting calls from seductive women at strange hours asking for my older brother. Frankly, I just think that those hussies are delusional.

Seriously, it's probably because his music is so cool, and he has an even cooler little sister. In fact, since you guys are my friends, I'd highly suggest that you check out his tunes at www.nathanhunter.net, or become his virtual internet buddy at www.myspace.com/nathanhunter.

Hell, while you are at it, check out some cool music that his friends make at www.myspace.com/ericvieweg (www.ericvieweg.com) and www.myspace.com/jjipsen.

Anyways, I guess I had better go and be a good little sister to Nate (and maybe remember to turn off the computer when I go upstairs). I've got cool things like knitting and such to do (which my older brother feels I do quite well).

Disastrix!

In the past two weeks since I wrote about my hat, it has happily been keeping my ears toasty while I have failed in every other aspect of my life. The most recent? The morning of my second to last exam, I realized I had been studying... FOR THE WRONG EXAM. Yes, for the past month or so I had mixed up my two econ course numbers in my head, and it had taken me until the last possible moment to realize my error. Now, if it had been any other class than this one, which I had kind of dicked off in through out the year, I probably could of winged it. But, no, it had to be the one class I had to do well on, to make up for the regrettable midterm which featured me answering a question about utility from fixed proportions of gin and tonics with "Stephen Harper should drink less so I can be spared this question."I will never know if the prof was amused by my answer, because I was too ashamed to pick my test up. So, I desperately tried to cram in some info before I went off to school. "Mmmm hmm, mmm hmmm... don't get it." Toss paper. "Ah, yes, wait... we learned this?" Toss paper. "Ew." Toss paper.

So, I went off to the exam feeling a little, how shall we say, stressed. And then I realized once I got off the McGill metro station that I didn't have my student card, and didn't have time to go back and get it, and briefly considered just passing out in a snowbank somewhere and letting the cruel nature of Montreal take me out of my misery. But no. No, I soldiered on! I signed all the forms about improper ID and whatnot, although if I was faking my identity, I think I would have sent someone I mite more competent in my place. Like the cat. Or the cracker I found under my desk while cleaning, which had probably achieved sentience. But I wrote that exam! And it wasn't a complete horror show, more of just a sideshow. I think I did quite well on the multiple choice, and one or two of the questions. We won't speak of the others. A nice Gentleman's C, perhaps?

And on the bright side, I am going to kick ass on Friday. After all, I'm already prepared.

Snow Gear

I kept on forgetting it was December- seriously, I dated one of my notes from Monday October 3- so Montreal decided to remind me with snow. Lots of snow. "I can barely open my balcony door to put the garbage out" kind of snow. I knitted up a new hat to celebrate, and keep my ears attached to my head. So, of course it had to be photographed in the snow.
Pattern: Glaistig from The AntiCraft
Yarn: Debbie Bliss Aran Tweed in 03
Needles: 4.5 mm Addi Turbos and Aero DPNs
Mods: None, really. Knit with one strand instead of two since it was aran weight wool anyway. I must have failed reading comprehension, because I still cannot figure out why we need instructions for a back half cable- I never got around to making one. Still, it's cute and keeps my ears warm.

As for the other stuff- acute disappointment in the area of the heart is not the only thing going wrong. My Dad couldn't come and see me this weekend, he's sick, the family car broke down, I'm sick, the cat still has a questionable skin condition... it's just the most annoying one, since it's turned me into one of those Women Who Obsess. I did, however, indulge in some ego-boosting flirting with V (of the girlfriended nature) and his friend this morning. Unfortunately, I don't know his friend's name, and he may be gay. However, he is tall.

Which, at this point, is enough for me.

In Which I Exploit a Tragic Death For My Own Ends

After a disastrous Thursday evening, in which I felt like a stalker, a loser, and a trial size pack of dish soap someone chose not to use- yes, really, and it would take too long to explain- I needed an excuse for the random bouts of crying I was going through. I cried walking home, I cried eating breakfast, I cried reading a book. Of course, I probably shouldn't have picked My Year of Meats, which features that m-word troika of feel-good topics: the meat industry, miscarriage, and marital rape. I even cried during Predator, my depression cure of choice. You know, Arnold, maybe the Predator just wanted to be loved too, you know? And collect a few human trophies along the way? He didn't need to die! Maybe you should have just given him time to adjust because he might be dealing with some emotional issues, Q- er, Arnold.

And so I was provided with one: the death of Evel Knievel. I knew him first as the daredevil in the snappy suit who I was sure had years of car jumps and broken ribs in front of him. But now he's become so much more. Family man, entrepreneur, and the reason I salted mall Pad Sew with my tears. Now I will go and light a red, white, and blue candle to his memory while drunk dialing everyone I ever had a crush on in high school- barring the Crush of Doom. Look out, Chris from grade 12 English- I'll be slurring my devotion to you tonight.

Socks For November

Mismatched On Purpose Socks
As the Montreal cold sets in, a new pair of socks is always appreciated. These came from the yarn my fabulous sockpal sent for me. They're from the Regia Kaffe Fassett line that came out a few months ago, though they've been hibernating all lonely and unphotographed for a while. They're rather lovely, but the pattern is just the old stockinette standby with short row heel and decrease toe. Seriously, only two things make these worthy of mention. The fact that they're most assuredly not knit to match (one's Landscape Fire and one's Mirage Fire), and the lovely colours- that Fassett fellow sure knows colour. I do think I like the stripe versions of the colourways better though- they seem to become muddier when variegated.

As for the situation I mentioned a few posts back? That whole affairs of the hearts thing? Sweet Christ on a cracker, is that ever a disaster of DeMillean proportions. At least I have ascertained that I do, in fact, have a thing for him. However, I have also ascertained that I should not. I have also annoyed all of my friends by bombarding them with neurotic ramblings on this topic. Here's a sample conversation between the roomie and me:

"We're so awkward! He talks to me and never says anything about it! Then he doesn't talk to me at all! Then we have awkward, feeble conversation. But then we also have really interesting ones, too. I can't do this! I must delete AIM from my computer entirely so that I'm never encouraged to speak to him again. What am I doing? I can't concentrate on my studying! Why don't we have more alcohol in the house? Please, shoot me in the head, fearless roommate.
So.... enough about me. What's new with you? Wait, has he said anything about me?"

So, I have come up with an easy, three-step plan to end the madness.
1. Join more clubs and games. The brain can't obsess when it's listening to someone whinge about CKUT funding!
2. Hang out at places that are related to things I enjoy. At best, I can find someone cute who likes those things too. At worst, tomorrow I'll have some shiny new reading material from the Drawn and Quarterly store.
3. Bar it up. In spite of my looming financial insolvency, I can't think when I'm drunk. Plus, the potential for amusing, but poor, life choices is high.
In the event of none of these steps working, we move to the fail safe.
FS: I shoot myself in the head.

Microeconomic Theory Has Stolen My Brain.

No more posting until I get this horrid exam out of the way. I'm becoming a hermit for the next few days, living off of only the food in the pantry and teaching my cat to fetch the mail. Please check in a few days in case of death.

Horoscopes and Horrors

I'm generally skeptical, but I do have one unfortunate failure of critical belief: my little horoscope widget. This tiny piece of code on my Mac dashboard is on a level with the Times and the New Yorker when it comes to factual accuracy with me, due to one brilliant moment of prognostication a year ago. It correctly predicted that a coupling would result from my recent mixing of social spheres, and boom- my Guelph pal Ginger was going out with my McGill pal Oscar after meeting at my birthday party. It didn't predict that they would break up four months later, but then again, nobody- and no thing- is perfect.

Every so often I check it to see if it will repeat this eerie feat again, hopefully in some manner that is more beneficial. To me. In the Department of Sex. Which is on the same floor as the Department of In My Pants. Today's was rather cryptic. Apparently I was recently introduced to someone who can get things going. A potential benefactor. And if I don't remember their identity, then I should just wait until they pop back into my life, at which time the plan will become clear. The plan is to wander around campus, using the Terminator analysis-cam on everyone I see, trying to decide if I a) know them and b) could use them in some sort of plan. And only then c) what the hell their name is. So, if I walk into any posts or trees this is why.

From the Department of Horrors:
Pistache on Halloween. He went as Jimmy Buffett.

A Memo From the Pentagon

I was wandering around the drugstore when I spotted this. I think the reason I had to buy two is self-evident. I had the time of my life drinking them. Nobody puts my bottle in a corner. I carried a pop-ermelon.
Katie and I are going to keep these for classy centerpieces. Stick a gerber daisy in each one and hot glue my lock of Patrick Swayze's hair to the middle. Martha Stewart would be so proud.

She would probably also sign off on my newest knitting project, the Pentagon Aran Cardigan from Knitting Nature. My other KN project, the Basalt Tank, is in stasis, but I've been knitting a few rows of this in between midterms. So far I love it, but I'm pretty sure I'll be running out of yarn before this project is over. It's Cascade 220, so it shouldn't be that difficult to come up some more (paging Frankie!) but as for dye lot... well, those luscious cables will obscure everything, right? And the yarn itself is a little heathered too, unexpectedly with yellow over red, so maybe that will blend better. I'm debating whether or not to change the sleeves, but until I get to that point, I'll just happily cable away. It keeps my mind off other stuff anyway.

Well, perhaps it's best to treat this situation as hypothetical. Which it is. Totally. I mean, say your name was "Protagitron", and you had generally kept to yourself in areas of the heart up until now. With the exception of the endurance competition that was the Crush of Doom in high school.

Now, say you're carrying on an innocent in-class flirtation with "V," who has a girlfriend anyway. But maybe it's not so innocent on your part, even though you keep on telling yourself that it is. And, furthermore, imagine that he says hello to you one day, and looks like he wants to talk to you, and does the over the shoulder sexy smile thing, as you rush off to your economics class. That should be made illegal for the unavailable, right?

And then, to make matters worse, suppose your fearless roommate tells you that a friend, "Q" has a thing for you. And you're pretty sure that he doesn't, but it's enough of a novelty that you're flattered. So, you're friendly to him because you're not one of those asses who openly reject friends who were never interested in them in the first place. But then, you wake up and realize you may have, while doing this, kind of developed a thing for him, too.

And, while all of this is going on, it would be perfectly reasonable to get through it by drinking many, uh, "Protagitrons" (tea and whiskey) and listening to Roy Orbison on a loop, no?

Fields of Green (Finally)

Uh, remember when I promised these pictures over a month ago? Or have you forgotten because it's been over a month? Well, here it is: my sweater! It fits perfectly.
Pattern: Boatneck Bluebell Sweater by Stephanie Japel; in Fitted Knits.
Yarn: Fleece Artist Kid Silk 2-Ply, in Moss. This is an absolutely gorgeous combination of colour and yarn. The haze of the mohair and the gleam of the silk really complement the tonal variationsof the dye, giving the knitted fabric a lot of depth and richness. Too bad those evil Nova Scotians discontinued it, eh?
Needles: 3.5 mm circs
Notes: I knitted one less purl ridge around all of the ribbing sections. At first this was an unintentional mistake, but after trying it on I decided it was more flattering on me this way, so I continued with two ridges instead of three throughout the sweater. I compensated for the lost length by doing more rows of ribbing. I think I also (unintentionally) knit fewer garter rows than called for at the neck, but I don't care enough to fix it. Otherwise, I followed the pattern exactly. I wish I hadn't, and just knit the sleeves in the round. I wonder why the lovely Ms. Japel didn't, but I'm sure she has some sort of design reason for doing so. Anyone care to elaborate? Or speculate?

But that is really just splitting (kid mohair) hairs, when the finished sweater is this lovely and flattering. And simple to knit. It calls out for a floaty, elfin skirt to twirl in, no? Well, sweats will just have to do. Particularly if I go through another month of school hell like the one I just finished. Also, a month of sickness, romantic confusion, and terrible mess. Next entry: new knitting projects, and an attempt to quantify the the magnitude of my romantic disaster.

Whee.

Great Moments in Analysis, Episode Whatever

" The most blatantly sexual couplet Pope has transferred from Thalestris's angry speech in 1712 to Belinda's lament when she addresses the Baron:
Oh hadst thou, Cruel! been content to seize
Hairs less in sight, or any Hairs but these!
What else could this mean except pubic hairs...?"
-Halsband, The Rape of the Lock and its Illustrations (1980)

Well, duh.



Sorry about the absence, there was a glut of school and life business, but my camera batteries are charging right now so expect photos of the green sweater, and the cardi in progress tomorrow.

Facebook Cattiness at 10pm

Yeah, I know I promised pictures, but I haven't figured out how to take pictures of myself that aren't a charming close-up of my chin. So, you get to hear about my Facebook habits instead. I have an acquaintance of an acquaintance who I'll call "Frank." I obsessively check Frank's Facebook profile once a week.
Why?
Because Frank is GIGANTIC KNOB. And because I'm a bitter, small person I get a kick out of his terribly pretentious profile. His interests include "giving food to beggars on the street." Yes, beggars . Careful! He might break into a song from Les Misreables at any moment! Oh, and he's "got a little obsession with nature and the beauty of the aesthetic around us all." I hope this includes the gigantic neon boobies on display on St. Caths. Knobbity knob knob. He treated my friend like crap, so I think my cackling is completely morally justified here.
Unfortunately, checking his Facebook profile also leads to the sad reminder that he has a girlfriend, and the realization that someone loves him more than anyone loves me. Except for my fat cat with the FIV and the scabs. And that he will probably do better in life hacking at monkey brains or whatever his thesis is than I will do in my entire life. So, the lesson: the people you despise are probably more love than you are. On the bright side, repressed jealousy makes the cattiness that much sweeter. See, the world takes care of its own.

Finishing the big green sweater finally kicked my knitting mojo into gear. I wanted to knit projects- all kinds of projects, the more intricate the better. Looking through Interweave Knits or Rowan magazines became a pornographic experience. However, most of my favourite sweaters are currently destined to remain unattainable centrefolds. I can't really afford a whole sweater's worth of Jamieson's for a Fair Isle sweater. I do, however, have a bunch of Cascade 220 I've been dying to knit with. I knew I wanted a cardigan, but I wanted something more exciting than just simple knit and purl, or traditional cables. So I've swatched for Norah Gaughan's Pentagon Aran. And I'm really excited to begin cabling. Right after I stop sniggering that one of Frank's favourite bands is Nickleback. There's aesthetic for you.

Dispatches

I'm just the slightest bit tipsy, so no real blog post. The Greenberry sweater? Is finished, thank Christ- AND IT IS AWESOME. Although, in the morning, when my critical faculties are once again available, we'll see whether it truly is that awesome. Until then, as I told my pal Ginger last night: "Don't ever say you're not really drunk- or a creepy stalker. 'Cause nothing will make you seem more like either."

Until tomorrow...

Spin Class: A One Act Feeeelm by Protagitron B. Protinski

Open on THE SPIN ROOM, your typical athletic room with wood floors and the MIRROR OF SHAME. Forty students are exercising on spin bikes. Facing them, is CAPTAIN PEPPY, a keen, but tiny, Asian man on his own bike. Track in to PROTAGITRON, sweating profusely.

CAPTAIN PEPPY
Come on ladies, PUSH IT!

PROTAGITRON
I hope you CHOKE on your [beep] pep, you [BEEP]ing [beep]sucking spawn of SATAN.

CAPTAIN PEPPY
Give it all you've got, guys! Go the extra mile!

PROTAGITRON
You suckled at Beelzebub's teat, didn't you?

CAPTAIN PEPPY
Alright, I want you to go even faster for the next thirty seconds, okay?

PROTAGITRON
One day I will fashion a charming scarf from your entrails, you SON of a-

Protagitron seizes up and clutches her chest

-heeeeack!

Protagitron falls off her bike and to the floor. One pedal bobs, as her left foot twitches sadly.

CAPTAIN PEPPY
Alright, now we're trekking up Mount Everest. Climb, everybody! Climb!

Track back out through the door. END SCENE.

Note: I actually do enjoy spin class. Shh.

Om, my brothers.

I've been a very naughty girl lately.

I've even picked up a crochet hook.

I thought I had sworn off hooking ever since the Ugly Hat Debacle of Aught Four. Then I tried to make a yoga mat bag. I started off with good intentions and the Om Yoga Mat Bag pattern from Stitch and Bitch Nation. I did well for a while, but since you're knitting it lengthwise the rows are very long, and I am very capable of screwing up even the simplest lace patterns when the stitch count gets to anything above, oh, 75. So, I frogged and cast on for the Lacy Yoga Bag from the Summer '07 Interweave Knits. I knit one whole pattern repeat, and decided I wanted my bag sometime before April. God, if I wanted to knit lace that badly, I could just go the whole hog and get a Heirloom Knitting pattern. Then I remembered that crochet does at least, and possibly only, two things well. It goes quickly and it's easy to make a 3-D object. Except I couldn't find a yoga mat bag online or in books that I liked. Apparently yogis only knit between their shavasanas. So I cracked open a beer and my copy of the Happy Hooker. This bag is the result.



Pattern: The Lazy Yogini Mat Bag
Yarn: Kertzer Butterfly Super 10
Hook: 5.00 and 4.00 mm
Notes: Seriously, this took me about a night to make. All hail crochet. I started off by making a circle in double crochet just large enough to go around my mat. Then, I single crocheted around without increasing, to create the beginnings of a cylinder. I used fishnet lace for the body because it rather handily uses a multiple of four, just like my circle. Sub whatever crochet patterns fits with the number of crochet stitches of your circle, or can be fudged in. Once it went about 3/4 of the way up my bag, I did about 5 more rows in single crochet, and then bound off. You want to make it a little shorter because it will stretch in this pattern. Chain stitch until you have cord about two feet long. Thread this cord through the last row of fishnet lace before the single crochet border.

Sew on a 2" thick strip of sewn fabric, thick ribbon, or even crochet a strap for the bag. My strap came from Americo Original, and cost an obscene amount of money- I had a momentary lapse in fiscal judgment. Okay, I just didn't want to seem cheap. At first I thought it was just embroidered burlap, but after touching it, I think it's llama, or alpaca, or God knows what else. It also, hilariously, came in a classy little boutique bag that looked like it came from a lingerie store.

Toss your mat in. It may be tight the first few times, but this bag stretches. Cinch the top closed, toss it over your shoulder, and you're ready for some deep meditation, along the lines of "God, I hope I don't fart in class today."

Protagi-green: Part 3

One out of one cats agree: Labour Economics is dull, and naps are good.

Sometime, between July and August, my social conscience came out of hibernation. Thus, I present to you Protagi-green: Slowly Greening Marty, or How to Get that Self-Righteous Glow (In Many Steps). Each week I'll try to make at least one change that will reduce my impact on the environment, and the wee cuddly beasties that live there.

Change 3: In Which I Try to Save Energy, and Am Late For Class
My next change for the environment was to cut my energy consumption. Now, as a poor university student, I don't own a car. I can't even set the heat for my apartment. So, I'm already relatively energy conscious, ignoring my secret dream to own a burgundy muscle car named "El Vigilante". But a steady diet of Treehugger and Worsted Witch gave me a twitch and the conviction that I could be better, god damn it, or else all the dead polar bears would be ALL MY FAULT.

Okay, I think Pistache the cat just farted.

Never mind, back to energy consciousness. ALL MY FAULT, WOULD THE DEAD POLAR BEARS BE. So, I decided to find ways to keep my energy down. I tried to remember to turn off the lights when I left the room. I put my computer and my TV systems on a power bar with a surge protector. Apparently these appliances suck energy even when they're on, like little energy vampires. I even took my wind-up alarm clock, with the pecking chickens, out of storage to replace my power-sucking one. And you know what? I must hate pecking chickens as much as I hate the polar bears. I always forgot to wind up that clock. I would set the time, set the alarm for 6:30, wind the alarm ringer, go to sleep... and wake up at nine. Sure, my favourite class begins at 8:30, but did being half an hour late stop me from confusedly lurching around the room, trying to get my stuff because I really had to go if I wanted to make it on time. No. No, it did not. I did start off well, however, with the power bar thing. At least in my room. There's nothing more depressing than flopping on the couch after a long day of academic and athletic classes, and wondering why on Earth your TV isn't working, and where your Simpsons are, damn it, so the TV power bar thing died ever so swiftly. I'm thinking of giving it another shot though. And this time I'll think of the penguins, the roly-poly penguins down at the South Pole. They won't grow up to crush my bones and eat my blubber.

I am old, my dears.

I turned twenty on Tuesday, but since the 18th turned out to be a rather lackluster day, I've decided that my birthday really fell on the 19th this year. Because that was the day of the great McGill costume sale. Turns out that the costume department at my school had been hoarding some real treasures down in their basement hovel, and they were finally releasing them. At a price, granted, but at an entirely reasonable one. I had the date marked off in the calendar since the signs went up, even though I was more interested in just wondering through the costume department as some kind of cheap outing. I also figured Katie and I would be the only people there, at twelve, gleefully bouncing on our heels like kids at Disneyworld. I don't know if it was the the allure of 50 cent tights, but the place was packed. We even had to wait in line to get in, but it may have been their awesome vintage room that was getting all the folks in. But it was all worth it.

Here's my fabric haul. All this for a bunch of spare change.

A cute shirt, that was made in London, possibly from the sixties. On the right: a brightly printed summer dress for those hot, muggy Montreal days. Sure, I won't be seeing those days for another few months, but that gives me enough time to excise the monster shoulder pads. Or to buy a can of AquaNet to complete the look.

And my favourite piece. A sheath dress with a beaded collar, dating from the early sixties if the label is any indication. The beading is in perfect condition, and it actually fits quite well- I may take the waist in a smidge, but it's not a neccessity. And it only cost me 8$!

So, everything all put together cost me a whopping 21.00$. A few more bucks and I may have been able to buy one shirt at the Gap.

And then I just got a belated birthday present this morning! I won a competition over at Whip Up, for a bunch of Amy Butler-related swag. I never win anything! Even if I deserve to! Clearly, the universe is not in alignment this week. So, if there's anything you guys usually screw up, give it a shot this week. It's the perfect time.

Protagi-green: Parts 1 and 2

Just try and make me care about global warming, you bastards.

Sometime, between July and August, my social conscience came out of hibernation. Thus, I present to you Protagi-green: Slowly Greening Marty, or How to Get that Self-Righteous Glow (In Many Steps). Each week I'll try to make at least one change that will reduce my impact on the environment, and the wee cuddly beasties that live there.

Change 1: Ditching the Plastic Bags.

Plastic bags are the devil. There's really no way of getting around it, plastic bags choke the environment, take forever to degrade, and are just plain ugly. However, those bastards are useful. They're light but strong, you don't have to remember to pack enough when you go grocery shopping, and they can be used again as disposable lunch bags and as cat poo disposal units. And everyone is keen to give you some. If I don't have your hands on an item and are desperately stuffing it in your reusable bag, the eager bag jockeys will put it in a plastic bag. Even if the only thing you couldn't fit in your cloth bag... was a bag of milk. Which comes with its own bag. But I don't blame them. They get paid dick all, they have to impress the boss, and they could be made redundant at any time if my local Provigo decides to follow the discount route and cut the amenity of the bagger. And dropping a snotty "Thanks, but I prefer *sniff* that you use my re-usable bag instead, it's better for our precious environment." is not an option, because that makes you a dick. So, my solution is to eagerly toss them a bag, with a friendly "Here's some bags! Thanks!" and help put some of the stuff in. They seem cool with that, it doesn't make me sound like an enviro-dick, and I've really cute down on my plastic bag use. I even backpacked my liquor home from the SAQ.

So, what bags have I been using? I had my eye on these, but they don't deliver to Canada, and it seemed wasteful when I already had a bunch of perfect grocery bags kicking around anyway. So, I use one of my flowery totes made from some wacky plasticized floral print fabric, or that President's Choice bag obnoxious Galen Weston wanted me to buy, all good choices for grocery shopping. The benefit to having reusable bags is that they offer the shoulder-slinging option that plastic bags so sorely. I also have that Everlasting Bagstopper waiting for straps so that it can be stuffed in my backpack for those impromptu purchases. Unfortunately, I'm having some cash flow issues, and I think I'll just have to steal parts from the old clothes that weren't good enough to make it to Value Village. Thrifty and ecologically responsible... yes. But hardly pretty.

Part 2: Green Mah Kitteh!

See that beast of a cat up there? That's what Pistache looks like. Pistache probably takes up a small country's worth of carbon emissions on his own. Because Herr Chubfat needs a special food, I can't really green his meals. He drinks tap water like the rest of us. What else am I supposed to do? Buy him locally-made, artisan-crafted, ecologically-sound ceramic food bowls? A bamboo litter box? Sometimes, things just go too far. So, my admission is that his litter box is a plastic behemoth from the local pet store, probably made in China. And his food bowls were from the Dollar Store, probably the product of some crazy lead-spewing Chinese factory. Because he's just crapping in the litter box, and any kind of nice bowls would be destroyed by my clumsiness. So, I can only green his litter. And thus we started to use Swheat Scoop. It isn't strip-mined from the earth, it still clumps, and it won't cause lung problems for my kitty. And Pistache surely doesn't need any more problems. Now, would looking into holistic pet dandruff fall under "taking it too far?" Pistache loves Kaffe Fasset socks.

Ouch.

The cat has dropped. Actually, more like thudded. This cat is huge. Pictures with household objects for scale (pens, Heinz ketchup bottle, medium pizza from 2 pour 1) to follow tomorrow.

What else dropped? My left leg, onto the ground, after my right ankle did a funky twist move in front of James McGill's tomb. Sure, I walked it off, and thought at most I had a pair of grass-stained pants and a mildly bruised ego. Instead, the mild pain in my right ankle became an intense pain, and now it's slightly discoloured and swollen. I think I tempted the Great Lever of Fate in my last post, when I mentioned my klutziness. Now, I can't even put weight on it, and have resorted to crawling around my apartment on all fours, or undignified hopping. Pray for a miraculous recovery tomorrow, so that I can attend my Film Studies class, taught by Nedward, and bake a cake.

At least Pistache is absolutely adorable. He's already out and socializing, and even managed to heave his girth up onto the couch for some TV-watching with Protagitron the Invalid. I'm also hoping that, if I can't walk, then this will be my excuse to get some much-needed knitting time in.

Tomorrow isn't Thursday!

It's Catday! Yep, tomorrow the roommate and I are off to pick up our new foster kitty, Pistache. He's apparently so large that he wouldn't be able to move around in a normal cage, and has to go to a foster home. We'll see if he can give Beast Cat Champ '07, Oliver, a run for his money. He also has FIV. Which means he'll fit in well with our household, where asthma, deadly peanut allergies and terminal klutziness run rampant. If he can survive the falling glass, that is.

We picked up supplies today, and this time we went right for the Jumbo-sized cat litter box. And, honestly, I think Katie was that such a purchase would be terribly damaging to any cat's psyche. It looks like the cat version of those bath fixtures designed for seniors. I also insisted on buying Swheat Scoop instead of conventional kitty litter, but more on that Saturday, when the first part of "Protagi-green: Getting that Pompous Asstwit Glow" drops.

Now With Actual Knitting Content!

Yes, Frank the Bear finally makes his belated debut on my blog, complete with Fu Manchu. I didn't intend to put any facial topiary on the little guy, but because of some row gauge issues I could either embroider his mouth above his nose and have it look weird from the side, or embroider it on his nose and have him look deformed from the front. The 'Fu does a good job of camouflaging this, and gives him that rugged, Brut-wearing, Camaro-driving, je ne sais quoi. I think he turned out pretty well, and he makes me giggle every time I look at his pictures.

Pattern: Blue Sky Alpaca's Baby Bobbi Bear
Yarn: Manos Del Uruguay Wool in Turquoise (you'll need more than 1 skein if you're subbing Manos at a dense gauge)
Needles: Clover 5.00 mm dpns
Notes: The pattern is fairly easy to follow if you have some knitting experience, but if you're a relative newbie who is comfortable with double-pointed needles, I'd suggest looking for the clarifications page Blue Sky has posted. Make sure to buy lots of stuffing, and mold as you stuff. Don't be concerned if it looks a little odd as you go along- with out ears and facial details Frank looked like a Smurf. The embroidery is the key to adding personality, and I'm glad I went with the red instead of a more staid black or brown. Gives him a bit of punch.

The Manos was gorgeous to work with, as always. It has to be one of my top 5 desert island yarns. I have a whole stash of Manos that needs to be knitted, including a really lovely, smoky lavender, which I think will become those fingerless gloves from AlterKnits.

These pictures were taken with my new cell phone on the drive back to Montreal. "Vive le Québec!", dit François l'Ours!

Too Damn Hot.

I'm in a constant state of sweat right now. I'm convinced that, at the rate I must be losing fluids, my flesh must have the texture of freeze-dried beef. And it's even cooler than it has been for the past few days in Montreal. Too hot to knit, particularly anything mohair. Too hot to move. By Friday, my room mate and I were in a state of advanced crankiness. The RC cable for the DVD player still hadn't turned up, our house felt like a steam bath, and the fridge had reached that state of condiment-heavy emptiness, where it's either starvation or a mustard and PC Memories of Canton sauce saltine sandwich. So, we went for milkshakes at the mall, but that wasn't enough to lift our spirits. We had to pull out the big guns: the pet shop.

There were adorable puppies, and sweet little ginger kittens sleeping like little packages. And then there were the fluffy kittens. Five of the six were staring at the cooing customers all googly-eyed, looking like they had spawned from a Charmin commercial. The last one was conked out in front of the litterbox, and covered in poo. Poor choice of real estate, that. He promptly became our favourite. My roommate thought my suggestion of "HRH Krap Kitty" as a name would be damaging to his self-esteem, but she's also the one who refused to buy the "Jumbo" kitty litter box because she thought it would give Oliver body image issues. Silly Katie, cats can't understand English! Old Egyptian, maybe, but not English. We settled on Buster as a suitable name. Oh, Buster. Come live with us, and I promise fountains of shampoo, and to never, ever crap on you.

University, or the Death of Culinary Aspirations

No knitting pictures today. The torso and left sleeve of the Greenbell sweater are finished now, but I want to wait until it's proven flattering to take pictures. My only other project is the seemingly endless lace mesh of my Everlasting Bagstopper, made from an everlasting skein of Butterfly cotton in a rich red. I know conventionally-grown cotton is the devil, but it was a cast off (ah, wordplay) from a friend, and I figure using vintage yarn would be better than going out to buy some hemp. So, instead you get a picture of the dinner I whipped up tonight, in the hour I had at home before I had to run to a class movie screening.

At the beginning of the week I bought a bag of baby spinach and some radishes in a rare fit of health-induced shopping. I preceded to make a spinach and cheddar omelette, a large spinach salad with radishes and cherry tomatoes, dressed in an easy, homemade vinaigrette, and... still had a bag of spinach and a bunch of radishes left. But I wasn't about to go shopping again, so I just grabbed ingredients in the kitchen and hoped for the best. Praise the parents for sending a box of non-perishables. It's just fettucine, sautéed radishes with some spinach thrown in to wilt, a touch of herbs and garlic... and then a generous slosh from the mysterious Pad Thai sauce jar my parents sent up. Verdict? Surprisingly tasty, considering its chimeric origins. And yet... there's still spinach left. Screw the bag- now that's everlasting.

Curse Bell!

I arrived safely in Montreal on Saturday, to find a suspiciously clean apartment. I'm a little concerned that a single thirty year-old with a bong can keep house better than us, but no matter. All my energy is currently concentrated on wishing Bell a painful and drawn-out death. I even hope that Alexander Graham Bell is being prodded in the ass by Satan, if there's an afterlife. Heck, I'm even thinking of switching to a religion with an afterlife so that I can fervently pray for this event.

Yes, I'm having technical and billing issues... why do you ask? Is it because I've been repeatedly stabbing a stuffed beaver in effigy of the Bell mascots? And I want to dance in their entrails and make a hat out of their little beaver livers? Because I am. National animal, or no national animal, the next beaver I see industriously chewing down a sapling is getting punted into the next field.

But it hasn't been all rage blackouts and psychotic thoughts. La Roomate and I hit up the free movies downtown with friends to see Bon Cop Bad Cop, and we wandered through Lush and ended up buying a few massage bars. I also finished my Bobbi Bear, with Fu Manchu, but sent him back to Guelph. I'll post pictures once I figure out how to transfer them from my new cellphone. Until then, I'll be constructing a small ranch house out of cardboard boxes, and wondering how I ended up with 8 sticks of deodorant.

Notes from the Laminate Underground

I'm committing the working faux pas of posting from my job, but I've been switched to media centre duty, and I'm high of toner fumes. Well, no, but things are quieting down, and there usual ten person deep line up for the laminating machines is gone. One thing you must know about teachers is that they laminate EVERYTHING. I know that one day they'll flip on the lights, and a manic teacher will be feeding the students in, foot by foot, Bronte by Tirth (actual names I saw being laminated yesterday).

Which lead me to come up with a worksheet problem that they could photocopy and laminate:

Laminate Math

Ms. Maple wants to laminate her class so that they'll be durable and hard-wearing. If she has twenty pupils in her class, the average pupil is 3'6" high, and laminate costs 0.24 dollars/foot:

a) How many feet of laminate would she require? (assume that they would expand only in width when flattened)





b) How much would Protagitron's employer have to charge back the school?





c) Would her plea of insanity hold up in a court of law?






Don't forget to show all your work!


I've been posting sparsely again, what with the whirlwind of appointments and packing I've scheduled lately. This will probably continue until at least Sunday, since I'm moving back to Montreal on Saturday. Wish us luck and no auto problems.

Baking, Cooking, and Butching It Up

Here are my hordes of cupcakes, ready for the greatest moment in any young girl's life: Cupcake Day at work! I did this last year with the other summer students. I bake the cupcakes, everyone else brings in a topping, and the decorating begins. The results can be used either as a Dadaist experiment, or to illustrate to disgusting (but delicious) consumption of Western culture. Now, my parents have a few old adages, and one of their most cherished is that People who use baking mixes are morally suspect. So don't tell them that I made these from a mix, and from the cheaper brand with the strangely irradiated, glowing tulips on the box. Usually I'm militant about making everything from scratch, but I can never muster that sense of righteousness for cupcakes. The baked part is just a holding pad for an inch of toppings anyway.


This is a photo from last Thursday, of a salad I made for a Last Hurrah for Guelph Party, a dinner/murder mystery before we all went back to school. It started out as an attempt to make Marian Burros's Farro Salad with Tomatoes and Corn, after I combed the archives of The Wednesday Chef for a salad that would be quick, simple and vegan. I figured the farro, an ancient, hearty grain, would be somewhere next to the kelp and the agave nectar at the Stone Store, the local purveyor of all rations hippie, so I sent my poor Dad down- the day of the party. A few hours later, we had no farro, and burnt quinoa that was supposed to be a farro-replacement. However, we did have one bag of orzo, a pasta with pieces the size of rice grains. So, it became Orzo Salad with Tomatoes and Corn. The only almonds in our house had to be slivered by hand, and the white wine vinegar replaced with a mixture of red wine and rice vinegars, but it turned out rather tasty. I do think it missed that certain nutty element of the farro, and next time I would replace it with spelt or bulgur but it was a qualified success.

Unlike my costume. I got to the party only to find out that I was supposed to be a woman. Which meant the twenty minutes I spent drawing on a mustache were wasted.

My Dog is a Supermodel

Pose, Smitty, pose!

SuperSocks To the Rescue

I came home from work to the most wonderful package. My sockpal socks had arrived! Here are a few reasons why my sockpaller, Rae, rocks:

1. These socks are absolutely gorgeous. Look at that lace! And beading too! These socks are a lot of "firsts" for me. They are my first pair of lace socks, since I always guilted myself into knitting socks that were supposedly more practical. I was wrong- beauty is completely practical for the soul. They're also my first beaded knit, and my first pair of purple socks. I can't get over how lovely they are, and I wore them for the rest of the day, August be damned.

2. They fit perfectly. I gave her wacky measurements, because I may or may not have been drunk. Or terribly stupid. But she realized my error, e-mailed me, and then knitted them to fit instead of writing me off as a terminal idiot.

3. She owns a yarn store in Lansing, MI. The awesome factor of being a LYS owner needs not be explained. However, she is even more awesome because she lives in Michigan, home state of one of my Dad's favourite college sports teams. Every year, the Wolverines and the Penn State Nittany Lions battle it out for my Dad's heart. I'll see to it that U of Mich wins it this year, although since she is in Lansing maybe I should push for Michigan State.

4. Two words: sheltie. puppy. The big dice in the sky works in mysterious ways, and so the owner of adorable Robin became the sockpal of Smitty's food dispensing unit and playtime fun machine. Sheltie owners are better people. It's science. And in another strange coincidence, the name of her Sheltie is the same as the first name of Smitty's breeder. Creepy!

5. In a display of generosity, she sent me sock yarn for more socks. And not just any sock yarn, but one ball of Mirage Fire and one ball of Landscape Fire, from Kaffe Fassett's new Regia sock yarn collection. She must have creepy voodoo powers, because I was drooling over an ad for the Fassett sock yarn in the newest Interweave. Not only that, but Fire was my favourite colourway.

Seriously, Rae, you rock but I'm putting my tinfoil hat back on now. The coincidences are too uncanny. I've also decided that my fabulous sockpal recipient deserves new yarn of her own if I do. So, watch that mail, Jill B.!

Weekly Digest

I grew a Jalapeño pepper. Gaze upon its spicy beauty!*

I. Sockapalooza Update
My sockpal, Two Sticks and Yarn, got her socks! My sockpal got her socks! SOCKS! PAL! VICTORY! Forgive me if I'm a little bit excited, but I spent the week since I sent them going over various horror scenarios in my head. The socks would get lost in the mail. The socks would take weeks to get there. The socks would be destroyed at the border as a national security threat to the U.S. Before you laugh at the last one, my roomie's grandmother sent her a crocheted blanket during first year. It was incinerated by some, shall we say, unhealthily dedicated Canadian border security. Or, they would get there but they wouldn't fit, or they would unravel. After seeing some of the other lovely packages, I was convinced she would bemoan my lack of classy packaging and tasteful bonus geegaws, and that Yarnstorm (incisively described as "the knitting Martha Stewart" by mote) would preside over my trial. But Jill B seems to really like them, so I'm both pleased and proud.
Read her touching write-up on my socks- I made everyone at work and in my family do so. Yay!

II. Roomie Update
My hetero wife and her family are all okay, but when I checked in last a boy from her little sister's class was still missing in the bridge collapse. It's been a while, and I know a lot of names have been taken off the list since I heard from her. I hope his was one of them.

III. Neglected Hillside Anecdote
I forgot to mention the best part of Hillside. My brother and I were down by the shore, trying to dodge hippie wang and bush in its natural habitat, when from behind the bend came the Pervatron in his pontoon. He wore tight cut-off chinos, no shirt, a life jacket, and huge early 90s sunglasses, striking the "Tino" as he sailed up. At first I was confused about what he was doing. He was slowly moving closer and closer to the shore, to the point where it was becoming alarmingly shallow for his boat. But then I realized he was on the hunt. The hunt for a group of nubile, skinnydipping Hillsiders.
First he purred:
"Helloooooooooo"
and then
"How's the waterrrrrrrrr"
As he passed the buffet of boob. He went a few meters further, not even to the next bend, when he swung around and did the perv loop again. And again. I'm sure he's still out there, forlornly calling "Helloooooo" to the void, wondering if he would ever know how the "waterrrrrrrr" was.




*Actually, I grew many Jalapeño peppers. If anyone in Guelph could give a few garden-fresh peppers a good home in some salsa, I can hook you up.

Protagitron's Folly

The Big Green Fuzzy thing has been reincarnated as a Boatneck Bluebell Sweater from Stefanie Japel's Fitted Knits. Look at the following progress picture to see if you can spot my peewee-level error. And, again, I apologize for the fact that my knitwear looks like re-fried ass in my photo. It's 9:30pm in the basement. I'm not brooklyn tweed. Things will return to normal soon.

No, it's not the part where my stitches go all wacky. That's from not steaming kinked yarn before knitting with it again (learn this lesson well, children!). How about we do a comparison shot with the book?

That's right! There are only two purl ridges instead of three. Two does not equal three, silly Protagitron! Here, I've made a handy clip n' save reminder so no one else makes the same error.Laminate it, tape it to the fridge, tattoo it to your body. Just remember it, folks. I had been knitting from a photocopy, but just reading the text, and not looking at the full body picture on the other page. There isn't anything wrong with the pattern- my brain just somehow skipped over the third purl 3 rows, knit 2 rows, and I didn't notice until 24 rows into the ribbing.

But all may not be lost. I have a short little body, and I'm wondering if maybe three horizontal bars will visually shorten and widen me even more. I think I'll try on the sweater, decide if it's more flattering this way, or whether I want the dramatic pop of three purl ridges. And if I like it this way, it was always meant to be so. Okay?

Sockapa-done-za

Hooray! These are currently on their way to my sockpal. Estimated delivery in 5 days or less. They're late because I totally misread the deadline, and thought that it was for the second week of August, when it was really the second. With one sock finished, I realized this at about 11:00pm... August 1.
Shockingly, I did pass my grade 10 literacy test.
Also, these socks are much more attractive in person than the cruddy pictures allow. I was working under restrictions, more precisely at work with a 400 page list that needed sorting on my desk. Also, the lighting was crappy. So, keep your eyes on the cute sock band, okay?

Pattern: Brigit by
Yarn: Colinette Jitterbug in Velvet Damson
Needles: Addi Turbo DPNs, 2.00 mm
Mods: Because of the aforementioned row gauge issues, I shortened the rows on the heel flap, and thus reduced the number of stitches I picked up and decreased for. I decreased an extra four stitches over the stockinette portion of the foot, so that it wouldn't be too wide. The row gauge also screwed up the cabling on the foot. There's supposed to be one and a half repeats of the cable pattern on the foot, in other words three of those cables, but with the different row gauge I was getting it probably would have fit my sockpal's Irish husband better than her. So, I cut it down to two and just did ribbing for a few more rows until working on the toe. Changed the decreases on the two very slightly too.

I think I'm even more proud of the sock label I made than my socks, and I like my socks. The rather folk art, over-caffeinated, mouse was a doodle I made at work, and I just taped it onto the sock info and photocopied it onto some bright pink cardstock. Access to these supplies for free, along with access to the lovely and talented K who actually knows how to work the machines, are some of the benefits of my job.

A Letter to my Roommate, or: Too Lazy to Write a New Post

Dearest Roommate!
I can't believe you're home already! Are your parents spoiling you yet?

I've assumed that you are okay, and not hurt in the awful bridge collapse (note: she lives in MN). My scientific reasoning for this was the infallible, "She's MY ROOMMATE and I LOVE HER" argument. How are Minnesotans handling it?

Not much news to report on from here. I ordered myself a new iPod, and have decided to finally lay old, cracked, Greenie to rest. However, instead of throwing it out, I've decided to decorate it with nail polish and resurrect it as that most useful of items... the paperweight. Especially in this digital age. Ahem. It should be here any day now.

I also went to a local music festival in Guelph last weekend, called Hillside. If you're not from Guelph, you may be unaware of what A VERY BIG DEAL Hillside is to Guelphites. In the newspaper, an article has quotes from residents describing it as "like Christmas". As you walk in to the festival, giant letters spell out ANTICIPATION in all-caps, like a particularly earnest LiveJournaller. A write-up i one of our local newspapers thought that was an accurate description of the mood of festival-goers, which is a lie, since mine would have read GASSY. It's an annual weekend where the crunchiest portion of Guelph can create their own little Utopia, and glad-hand each other on how socially conscious they are. The programmes are not only printed on post-consumer recycled paper with vegetable-based inks, but in a printshop powered by biodiesel fuels. Gear is transported from stage to stage not in a truck, but in a large tricycle. Food vendors use plastic plates that are washed and re-used as the festival goes on.

This year, the big craze were these stainless steel water bottles. After Wal-Mart had finally built their store, the anti-Wal Mart squad needed to funnel their energies into other projects, and so they set their sights on Nestlé. Nestlé bottles water that comes from a spring near Guelph (i.e. the very same water that runs through our taps), and with our annual water rationing in summer, their application to get their water-taking permit renewed was not well-received. I look forward to the cause celebre CD local Guelpherati put out, to follow the Wal-Mart volume. Since plastic water bottles were a waste problem at Hillside anyway, they came up with the idea of offering bottles for sale, and hiring a big tank truck to bus in city water. But with the recent health concerns of off-gassing plastic, they went one further and got Klean Kanteens, (whose name is one K away from awful hilarity). What ensued? Water bottle mania. 30 minute long lines to get these bottles. To obtain one would give you immeasurable Guelph cred. To be without one would make you a lesser man. I decided I couldn't care less, and that if I really wanted an off-gassing free water bottle, I would just head down to the local hippie health store, pay the extra $ and get myself one of those pretty Sigg bottles. However, my Mother wanted one. And her lovely daughter spent twenty minutes in line and got her one before they sold out. I'm only a little more curmudgeonly to show for all that!

Now, these are all very noble endeavours, but after the first twelve hours I always feel a distinct urge to drive over to the festival in my Hummer, eating McDonald's take out and running over some endangered waterfowl on the way, while blasting Toby Keith. Fortunately, I hate Toby Keith. Almost as much as I hate the goddamned water fowl.

In spite of my deeply cynical and lazy nature, I continue to go to Hillside because the music is usually quite good. If you want me to, I can YouSendIt or whatever a sampler of my favourite Hillside artists. I highly recommend the Klezmer hip hop of socalled, and the insane stage show of Shout Out Out Out Out. I also had a weird moment when I found myself attracted to a rather aged member of one of my brother's favourite groups, although it's probably just all my repressed sexuality beginning to boil over. In my defense, however, it was at a really fabulous workshop where a bunch of Hillside artists got together and played the music of The Band. The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down was amazing- everyone stood up and sang, and even I pretended to know the lyrics.

How are you? How's the family? How is le boyfriend? Write back! Also, would it be okay if I ordered something from a US-only company for delivery to your fair abode? It's very small, 9"x6", and I would be forever in your debt.

Off to see Ratatouille,

Protagitron

Ratatouille was adorable, by the way. I'm curious about the particular alchemy of Pixar- how they can transmit humanity so easily through animation, and how different it can be from something like the Uncanny Valley fest of the Polar Express. All the Polar Express does is CGI over human actors, but there's something unnatural about the final product- like a horror film set at Madame Tussaud's. Pixar shows that movies don't have to sacrifice emotional reality for a bit of visual fun. Be warned- it will make you hungry. I'm trying to teach my degu how to cook me a cassoulet as we speak, but his lack of opposable thumbs and long-term memory is proving to be an obstacle.

Harry Potter and the Rebellious Wand

Smitty demonstrates the "Beseeching Sheltie Pose"

I liked the new Harry Potter, right up until the epilogue. I won't give the ending away, but while I found the content satisfying, I found the writing clunky and lousy with exposition in the last few pages. Since there's a lot more death and violence, and even curse(!) words that aren't cut off in time by other characters, I'll be interested to see what rating the movie gets when it's made.

Oh, screw it. Spoiler time.

Harry is lives and, marries Ginny. Ron marries Hermione. Draco marries some lady who doesn't even get a name. They all have babies with meaningful first- and last- names who all look like their parents. Does this mean that all the Potterites reproduce by binary fission or budding instead of sexual reproduction? Damn it, that would deprive me of the amusing idea of a Snape-lead sex ed class where he breaks down over Lily and makes Harry stare at him until third period. End Spoiler Time.
I haven't been up to much, lately, except advanced sloth. I went to my first Yoga class on Monday. It's work! I was expecting two hours of breathing to sitar music, but instead I ended up sweating. A little. it did make my back feel better, although I am unsure if I am the ideal student. During relaxation time, when we were supposed to concentrate on our breathing, I instead pondered that great, pressing question: Is it the borrowed yoga mat that smells of feet, or do my feet.... smell of feet? I'm also curious how one of the few guys in our class managed to achieve his magnificent pompadour. It was rockabilly fabulous, and no amount of cat pose or downward dog would deflate its splendour. He also had a pair of tight little shorts, and I found myself immediately fascinated. My thoughts went something like this: "Did he dress like that at home? Did he sleep in a hair net like those beehive girls did in the sixties? Had I just checked out his ass from sheer desperation?" Torn between giggling and collapsing into tears I instead looked mildly constipated, and lost my balance.

The next day, I wasted my new spiritual transcendence on my first manicure/pedicure, in a very un-Namaste shade of deep burgundy with bronze glitter.